


what you know

by archerhatesyou



Category: Gintama
Genre: Bonding, Character Study, Infidelity, Multi, Mumblecore, Present Tense, demisexual gin-san
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-06-03 06:20:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6600154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archerhatesyou/pseuds/archerhatesyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At some point it had just clicked that they were seeing the same person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Hijikata steps up to the bench just outside the dango shop—their usual meeting place—but a woman is already seated there. He might normally be miffed that he has to hang around standing to wait for that mop-head, who will almost certainly roll up twenty minutes late. But the woman is packing fine tobacco into a kiseru, and in this world of shifting propaganda Hijikata will take all the camaraderie he can get.

He stands just to the side and places a cigarette between his lips. "I'm waiting for someone," he says, scooping the lighter out of his yukata sleeve. "Mind if I sit?"

When her eyes raise they're illuminated like flaked amethyst held up against the sun, and he is so dumbstruck that he doesn't hear the answer and has to prompt her to repeat.

"I said I don't mind." Her voice is soft and deep.

He sits beside her, a fair amount of space between them, and lights up. "Sorry."

"I'm waiting too." She looks dignified, dangerous. He can't resist surreptitiously staring at the vicious scars on her face. It helps that she's gorgeous. "He's already late."

"Who are you waiting for?"

"Just . . . I don't know. A friend. I guess."

He didn't expect it to be a difficult question. Undefined sex relationship, maybe? "Sounds familiar."

"Hm."

Hijikata hopes that the guy shows—because what an asshole, to stand up a woman like this—while simultaneously hoping that they _both_ get stood up.

They sit in silence and watch business suits with cell phones, plain kimono with sacks of groceries walk by. He burns through two cigarettes, and in that time observes her refill the kiseru four times. "You don't seem to get much out of one bowl."

"Maybe five good puffs."

"That's not annoying?" By now it's obvious that neither of them are meeting who they came for, that they are now just hanging out.

"It's more a hobby than a habit. The ritual is more calming than the smoking itself."

"Is that so."

"You should try it. Cigarettes are bad for you."

"Come on, lady, you're smoking too."

"You don't actually inhale pipe smoke. And there are no toxic additives in loose—"

"Alright, alright." He's finished the cigarette, so he pinches out the last of the tobacco and stuffs the butt into a portable ashtray. Yamazaki fusses when he empties it in the trash at the compound, so Hijikata is scanning the area for a public bin. "Getting late now." Sunset won't be for a few more hours but already the daylight is starting to turn a little more yellow-orange.

"I'm going to wait a bit longer."

Hijikata hesitates before asking, "Why?" It's got some harsh implications, but he thinks she's better than to waste an entire evening waiting around for some man.

"If he doesn't come, he's probably gotten into trouble."

Come to think of it, Gintoki is the same way. Late is one thing—being a no-show is another. Anyone else might just be lying half-beaten in some dark corner of the district. With Gintoki, real trouble is far more severe than being stripped of what paltry change he has left. If the shit is already under way, there's nothing to be done but wait for it to blow over, and to watch him limp home.

"I'll wait with you."

She looks up quizzically.

"Just pack me a bowl, will ya?" he says as he hands her a cigarette.

Because there's nothing he can do, and he's worried nonetheless.

/ / / / /

When Tsukuyo blinks awake she is slumped to one side, her cheek resting against the stranger's arm. She rubs her eyes. "Your friend never came?"

He's holding a lit cigarette. She wonders how many he's even got left by now. "Neither did yours. At least—no one came to kick my ass, letting you fall asleep on me."

"I'm sorry."

"'S fine."

"How long was I out?"

"Twenty, maybe."

She grumbles and touches her forehead, wishing she could push through and massage her eyeballs. That should've been the perfect power nap. Tsukuyo hasn't been sleeping well, and the weeks are catching up with her. These evenings with Gintoki are among the few she can truly relax, so his absence had turned up the dial on her anxiety and that was just _draining_ her. As she had fought to keep her eyes open she decided it was a public enough place to nod off next to an unfamiliar man. She'd thought it would relieve some of the exhaustion, but now she just feels like lead, and there's a heavy swimming feeling in her sinuses like motion sickness without movement.

"You alright?" The stranger is peering at her, eyes narrowed with concern.

"Just feeling a bit ill."

"Let me walk you home."

"It's not really within walking distance."

"My plans kinda got cancelled anyway."

"It's really not necessary. I don't—"

"I'm a cop. Consider it part of the job." That explains the sword at his hip. He speaks in commands but his relaxed posture makes it feel passive somehow, like he recognizes her right to refuse. So when he offers his hand she takes it, and he gives a little tug to help her stand. She's woozy and reflexively hooks her hand into his elbow—partly to keep from losing balance, partly because she's thinking of Gintoki and muscle memory dictates that her hand goes there.

In fact, the two might actually be the same height. Where Gintoki is beefier, compact, this man's black hair and slender frame make for an illusion of height greater than the reality. His features are small and serious, but if his habits are any indication he's not good at compartmentalizing. So he's probably also more neurotic than he looks. Vaguely she wonders what he looks like annoyed. She has tried not to stare but his eyes are such a unique hue that she feels the need to keep confirming it.

Blue eyes are never that dark.


	2. Chapter 2

"If you need to hurl," Hijikata says, " _please_ warn me."

"It's not like that." Public transit had left her a tad wobbly, and now she's pushing the heel of her free hand into an eye, the one without a scar.

And now he's even more pissed off that she was abandoned. At least Hijikata is based in the same area as his letdown. _This_ was almost half an hour by train, plus all the walking. Her 'friend' better be in a fucking _coma_. "Promise me anyway."

She coughs quietly, which he takes to be a laugh. "I promise." Her hand has shifted to her temple, working small circles into her skull. "He's usually so predictable."

"Don't worry. He's fine." It's lame and he knows it because he can't decide whether he says it for her or himself.

She's still got a hand linked in his arm, and she's putting real weight into it so she must be pretty disoriented. "What's _your_ friend's excuse?" she asks.

"I don't speak for that dumbass." He's not one to get fucked up about Gintoki blowing him off now and then; usually it turns out he'd just been more invested in a homemade parfait than picking up his goddamn handset. What a fucking way to reward genuine concern.

And yet the concern is always there. He could cry _wolf_ every day of the week until the end of time, and every day, Hijikata would come running.

The station they'd stopped at wasn't quite enough to flag concern, but within a few minutes Hijikata realizes they really _are_ headed for Yoshiwara. "You sure you know where you're going, lady?"

"I'm dizzy, not amnesic."

He's a little cautious but gives her the benefit of the doubt. The place she takes him is in the back of some kind of shop, but it isn't a love hotel or brothel so he follows her in without a word. The orange daylight filtering in through rice paper panes highlights a surprisingly normal apartment space. It's small, but she seems less the type for nesting in a home than regrouping at a base of operations. She likely only comes here to be unconscious for a couple hours. This is more than enough for that.

He seats himself against the wall while she stands in front of a little vanity in the corner; he notices the almost green cast to her ashen hair when she removes the kunai from it, the mechanics of which he is not going to question. "Are you a swimmer?" he asks.

"No." She pushes the thigh highs off her legs in a way that looks so tired and sober that Hijikata laughs aloud. "What?"

"Sorry. Nothing."

"Would you mind?" she says, without a look pointing delicate fingers toward an open closet. She disappears through another door, so he obliges; in the closet there's nothing but bedding so he drags it all out and arranges the futon in the center of the room. When she returns she's wearing a dull yukata, again in maybe the least alluring manner imaginable.

And yet he can't help but notice he's _still here_. She steps toward the futon and angles her body like she wants him to move, but he's still standing there and doesn't want to move and he's taking a tiny wrist in one of his hands while the other sweeps the hair away from the scarred side of her face. _Am I fucking insane, we've both got someone that might be lying bloody in a ditch and I'm making moves?_

"How is a woman supposed to feel safe, if a policeman can harass her in her own home?"

His thumb traces down a scar, the one below her eye. Because yes, he is fucking insane. "How did you get these?"

"I did it myself."

"Why?"

"To deter unwanted attention."

Hijikata stands up straight, lets go of her. "I'm sorry."

He's turning for the door when she grabs his collar, pulls him back to sit on the futon. He gets the point and stretches out, and she slips an arm under his waist, spooning him.

"This might be considered confinement," he says.

"Bullshit."

He settles back and watches dust float golden in dim streaks of light, and within minutes falls asleep to the rhythm of her breath on his hair.

* * *

"Omawari-san."

Hijikata dissolves into consciousness, and his eyes open but it's pitch dark. Her arms are still snug around him.

"I didn't mean it," she says.

"What?"

"About feeling unsafe."

"You might not've kept me otherwise."

"I'm sorry." Her voice is taut with gravity.

"Hey, it's alright. I get it." He extricates himself in order to turn over and face her; he can't see but he smells her hair, a floral musk. It takes effort not to reach out and touch her, anywhere, everywhere. "Does this mean it's okay to harass you?"

"I wouldn't use that word."

"Is that a quip or a threat?" She hums, like a vocal shrug. "Yeah right. I'm not taking any chances, who knows where else you've got throwing knives stashed."

"Men and their irrational fear of vagina dentata. . . ."

"That is a _million_ percent not what I meant."

"I have to go to work now."

"So we're just gonna gloss over the throwing knives thing."

He hears little pops in her bones as she stands, and the sound of feet on tatami.

"What do you do, anyway?" he asks. "You some kind of peacekeeper too?"

"What makes you say that?" She sounds farther away, and he squints when a lamp flicks on near the vanity.

"Well you're not a prostitute."

"Uh . . . thanks."

"Oh come on, look where you brought me," he says, gesturing vaguely to Yoshiwara at large. "And I doubt you made those scars just to ward off advances."

"Mm. What else are they for, then?"

"Intimidation, maybe. Or a symbol of identity."

She runs her fingers through split ends before picking up a brush. "You're a little too smart, omawari-san."

"That's a new one," he snorts.

"So do you want to know what I do here?"

"Would I have to arrest you?"

"It might depend on how I phrase it."

"Best keep it to yourself then," he says, finally standing with a grand post-nap stretch.

"You don't have jurisdiction here anyway."

"And you've never been known to walk the town above ground."

She brushes her hair back up into the same feminine mage as before, glances at him in the mirror. "Thank you for keeping me company."

"I'd be lying if I said it was pure altruism."

"But there was a bit of altruism in there."

"Of course."

"I'm alright with that. It's appreciated either way."

Without his permission his hands settle atop her shoulders, lips graze her lilac-scented hair—or maybe hyacinth, he's not great with flowers—and he says, "Have a good night."

And he doesn't wait for a reply before ducking out into the streets, because he's terrified to have made yet another friend that he is destined to lose.


	3. Chapter 3

She has just flopped down atop her covers when she's glomped, forcing the breath out of her in a voiceless puff. It can't be anyone but Gintoki, but she isn't satisfied until her eyes focus on the snowy fluff of his hair. Just the flash of it makes her smile. Her arms come up around his shoulders, fingers pick through his curls. He smells like dust and sunlight. "You rolled right out of bed onto that scooter, didn't you?"

"The struggle is real, Tsukki." His face is planted just above her stomach, and she squirms as he teases her nipple through her clothes. When it's perked up he centers a warm palm on it. "I swear this isn't what I came here for." He opens his mouth wide and huffs a heated breath into her ribs.

"So then what are you doing here so early?"

"What the hell do you mean? I wanted to see you."

A cavity in her chest opens up, and it feels so big that she unconsciously pushes at Gintoki a bit, as if he's sand and in danger of pouring inside.

He notices and pushes back into her, just a little, as he breathes deep. "You stink."

Tsukuyo frowns, surprised at how much this offends her. "That's what you get for coming over here right after I get off work. I haven't even had time—"

"I like it."

"What?"

"Your smell. More like clean sweat than anything, right now. Exercise sweat. Makes me wanna do things to you." Now his mouth is hot against her breast. "But that's not why I'm here."

"Yeah, you keep saying that."

"So. . . ." For the first time this morning she gazes down and meets his glassy eyes, hooded and over-serious. "I know I said . . . that."

She suppresses a grin.

"It wasn't a lie. I really did just want to see you."

"But?"

"Hey, don't get snappy with me. _But_ I didn't expect . . . this. So really, this is your fault."

"And what is that, that's my fault?"

"You know . . . this. Whole situation." He wriggles his hips; he's hard against her leg.

"And what did you expect."

"Shut up."

"I don't know that I can stay awake."

"It's fine, that's not strictly necessary."

"Gintoki. . . ."

"I'm kidding! Bad joke, I'm sorry." She grumbles. "But that's exactly what I'm talking about. I know . . . you've been wearing yourself out lately."

She frowns to keep unreasonable tears at bay. Tsukuyo isn't normally so emotionally charged. He hasn't even said anything to warrant tears, that's just how stressed she is.

"And I've missed you," he says.

 _There it is._ He sits up on his knees; she closes her eyes to hide the fact that they're welling up. She jumps when he sets his palms against her hips, then settles back as they trace all over her sides and her lower back and her thighs, one hand outside her clothes and the other just inside the slit of her skirt. It's not heavy handed like a massage, and it's not sensual like foreplay. He's just feeling her under his hands, like he needs to be in physical contact to know she's really there. A compulsion born of absence.

She never gets enough of this.

He takes another deep inhale and nuzzles under her side. "Nap with me."

"Didn't you just wake—"

"Nn, shhh."

His face is so close to her underarm that she really is self-conscious about the smell, but he has literally chosen to be there so she tries to relax. Over time he just keeps pulling her closer, squeezing her tighter, so that by the time she dozes off he's like a human corset squishing her middle. It's uncomfortable and she's certain to have some interesting sore muscles later. But she'll be happy with the pain. 

* * *

When Tsukuyo wakes to the midday sun, the phantom warmth of her memory dissipates. She lifts the hem of her yukata, fondles the knob of her hipbone. The skin there seems so cold.

/ / / / /

Hijikata returns to the dango shop the next afternoon, in his head rehearsing images of executing a thorough Gintoki ass-kicking. But he knows it's just fantasy. The guy isn't stupid enough to hang around his own haunts when he doesn't want to be found. This of course presupposes that he just doesn't _want_ to be found, rather than the alternatives. Which Hijikata shall not entertain at present.

There's no Gintoki, but what he does find is the woman from yesterday. "Hey."

She glances up with those otherworldly eyes, kiseru between her lips, and pats the bench.

"You're a long way from home," he says, plopping down beside her.

"This is the day we usually meet."

"You still haven't heard from him?"

The pipe clicks against her teeth. "What about you?"

"No. Nothing."

"Pretty sharp," she says. Her eyes are following the gold trim on his uniform.

"Just got off work."

She turns the pipe over, taps it against the edge of the bench to empty the ashes. Thunder rumbles in the distance. "So. Do you come here often?"

Hijikata snorts. "Nah. I guess I had the same thought as you."

"You have a regular day too?"

"My schedule is too inconsistent," he says, fresh cigarette in hand, the other patting himself down for his lighter. "We just . . . whenever I have time, you know. Getting kinda rare."

"You're a workaholic."

"What?"

She shrugs.

He's just beginning to think he has left the lighter at HQ when she holds out a lit match, so he leans in. "I have a lot of lazy fools working under me." One, mostly—the rest at least try their hardest. "If they screw up it's my ass anyway, might as well do it right."

"If you want something done right, do it yourself."

" _Exactly._ "

"You're . . . just as neurotic as I thought."

"Excuse me?"

"Hm?"

"I think you called me neurotic just now."

"I wouldn't say that. Aloud."

"See, that right there, that last part kind of makes me not want to trust what you're saying to me."

"Neurotic?"

"Just now. You said it again."

"You've said it so many times, it's stuck in my head."

 _How can this stone-serious woman sound just like Gintoki playing boke ball?_ "You've said it 100% more times than I have. Check the transcripts." There's a little twitch of her lips; a suppressed smirk. It's maybe the first time he's seen her smile at all. "Hey," he says. "Let me buy you a drink."

"Ah . . . no."

Boy has he gauged the situation wrong. "I'm sorry, I wasn't—"

"No, it's not—it's just . . . let's say I'm less than a fun drunk."

"Oh." He somehow manages to mask his relief—no is sometimes simply _no_ , and not always _never speak to me again_. "I mean, I can take it. Maybe you could use a punching bag right about now."

Not that he has any idea what he intends to _do_. He'll never be mistaken for a social butterfly. But he just wants her to be near, and thinks maybe she could use the distraction as well.

"That's very sweet but I work nights, if you'll recall."

"All the time?" She nods. "When do you sleep?" Third shift is a culture of its own—this is a common question for them, so he doesn't bother feeling ashamed that it might sound too personal.

"In the mornings, right after work." Her answer comes without hesitation or suspicion.

"So you've already been awake eight hours before your shifts even starts? Isn't that exhausting?"

"Eight is conservative but yes, and that is one among my problems right now."

A thought flares up in his mind but gets stamped out just as fast. Because surely she's too classy for the guy. And out of his price range.

And she isn't a sex worker anyway. Unless she is and the scars are just what some guys are into. Hell, Hijikata can relate. He doesn't trust perfection and finds a bit of unkempt natural beauty goes a long way. There _must_ be oiran like that, right? There's plenty about her that's unique, but still nothing that codes for attention-seeking. And she doesn't carry herself that way, aiming to sell herself.

He's overthinking. That's all there is to it. She stopped just short of admitting to illegal activity, and considering the paired tantō on her back and the goddamn kunai in her hair, vigilantism is more probable than sex work. Taking the Kinky Boots into account the final option is some kind of dominatrix situation—but something about her reads less than confident, so this seems unlikely.

At this point, honestly, it doesn't matter. He's so wound up about Gintoki's mysterious and protracted absence that he _needs_ contact. It's a nervous energy, like he's charged and needs to release a little static shock on some unsuspecting passerby. It's just to get her attention but his spine tingles when he grazes her skin with the backs of his fingers—her right arm just below the shoulder, the least intimate span of exposed skin on her slender form.

"Can I walk you home again?"

He doesn't hear himself say it until it's out. Nor does he regret it. Hijikata watches the business suits and plain kimono rush past; even emptied of tobacco, in his periphery the pipe is lifted from her lips.

She answers, "I wish you would."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meh. There are some things in here I like but it's not my best. I have a couple thousand more words in the bank but still only the vaguest idea of what's next, so as always, feedback is much appreciated. <3

Hijikata is sitting at his writing table doing some bullshit paperwork when Gintoki sneaks in from the courtyard. "Oi!—you can't just come in here."

"What? It was wide fuckin' open."

"For my subordinates."

He's taking his boots off just inside the room, which is nice in that he's hidden but irritating because boots. On Hijikata's tatami. "Does that make me your superior?"

"What the hell is with your logic?" Gintoki cheeses as he helps himself to a floor cushion nearby. "You can't be so obvious."

He's stretched out on his back, hands behind his head. "Yeah, but the more annoyed you are the more natural it looks."

"You'd be surprised how perceptive Sougo is."

"Oh he definitely already knows I'm fucking you."

"Keep it down! I'm fucking _you_."

He shrugs. "That's a matter of perspective, and he doesn't have any."

"Then what do you mean, he knows?"

"He's like weirdly obsessed with you, you ever notice that?"

"He's not obsessed with _me_ , as much as with killing me. Trust me, it's tactical." Gintoki grunts. "Or what, are you jealous?"

"Of that shrimp? Nah, I got my own shit going on."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Means I'm awesome and beautiful and smart—"

Hijikata snorts.

This makes Gintoki sit up. "Did you just laugh."

"You're hearing things."

"I'm hearing _laughter_. Fuck you, what, you don't think I'm perfect and intelligent and handsome?"

"You're fishing."

"Yes and I _hate_ it, please shut me up." He lies back on the cushion again. "Gagging on my own goof over here."

"So then shut up."

"Have you met me? I'm like a shark. If I quit talking I'll die."

"Yorozuya, seriously. Shut up." He'd meant it to come out in line with their usual banter, but his fried nerves have trouble controlling the tone.

Which Gintoki, of course, notices. "What's up with you?" Bastard notices everything, even when you're sure he's not paying attention.

"Nothing."

"You know I won't fall for that, why you make me needle this shit out of you?"

 _Especially_ when you think he's not paying attention. "I just . . . don't have an answer."

"Stress?"

"Maybe."

Hijikata feels Gintoki settle down right behind his back, which is intimate enough before there are arms around his waist. He pushes back, tries to force space between them. "Cut it out, somebody'll see."

"Don't care."

"I do. This is my place of employment."

"It's your home too."

"I mean it. Get off."

He feels guilty when Gintoki stands up, but he just goes to close the shōji and sits right back down where he was. "I'm not taking it personally, but come on, man. Loosen up."

"Not only is it unprofessional to have _anyone_ hanging on me in the middle of the day, but you're also a veritable lowlife—"

"Okay, I'm kinda starting to take it personally."

"—not to mention, a dude."

"Boy, you don't know a hell of a lot about samurai, do you? Lemme tell you about a magical little thing called shūdō—"

"You'd have to be a real samurai for that to be legit."

"Ouch. Look who's talking, farmboy."

"That's what I meant."

Gintoki clicks his tongue. "Look. I get it. You think the tsuntsun act is cute or whatever, fine."

"Excuse me."

"But you're way too worried about what they'll think."

"Wait."

"They're good guys. Sure, they'd josh you on it until the end of time—"

"Not selling it."

"But they'll never judge you for it. You know that. The only people that matter are your friends, and they've been watching you live as a fuck-up for years."

"Hey now. . . ."

"Their opinion of you isn't going to change based on who you're fucking, or who’s fucking you or whatever. Unless that person is a real bad seed, then they have every right to judge." Hijikata shivers when he feels teeth on the nape of his neck. "You know I'm right."

"I was ready to relent until you added that last part."

"And you were about to argue with me about the tsuntsun thing? Well: I dare you. How about that."

"Goddamn it."

"Yeah. What are you doing here that's so important anyway?"

"It's not important, that's what's got me so pissed off."

"What is it?" He somehow manages to scoot even closer and roots his chin on Hijikata's shoulder to spy on his work. Hijikata flips over the top page. "Don't be stingy."

"Let's call them TPS reports."

"That useless, huh."

"But they've gotta be done to the letter because they go in official records, where there's a 99% chance they'll never see the light of day again."

“Shouldn't this all be digital by now?”

“Are you kidding me? This is the land of the fax machine.”

"Make the sneak do it, he's good with that shit, right?"

"I often do, but it's my turn."

"Come onnn, Ōgushi-kun."

"Why would you do that, when you know it pisses me off?"

"Can I stay, at least?"

"Are you gonna let me work?"

"A little. But I expect some attention too. You can handle the balance."

Hijikata almost bites back with another 'tsuntsun' refusal to comply, but he senses something is amiss. "What about you?" he asks.

"What do you mean, what about me?"

"You're not usually so needy."

He pushes his cheek into Hijikata's back and snuggles in like he's clutching a pillow to sleep. "You're busy so I leave you alone, but I'm fucking tired of it. Just lemme fucking sit here."

"Fine. But you're gone by dark. And no one sees you."

"Kinky."

"I don't think prudence counts as a kink."

"Ungh, keep talking dirty to me."

"Gintoki, please stop unzipping your—"

"Take off your pants."

"No."

"Come on, everyone knows that's the number one advantage of the work-from-home scheme."

"I think you have some serious misconceptions about what my work 'scheme' is."

"Fuckin' tax thieves, right? I got this."

"You're really tempting me."

"I knooow, I am quite the—”

"I mean, to arrest you."

" _Ohhh_ , my god, _so_ kinky."

"I don't think you understand that I'm being serious."

"Yeah? Me too." He has that half-asleep look on his face so it's difficult to gauge him.

"Is this a legitimate kink you have?"

"Why do you think I got involved with you?"

"I change my mind. Out."

"Hey, come on—"

" _Now._ "

"Nah, man, it's all a joke. Just maybe handcuff me a little?"

"I swear to—"

"Keep your voice down, Hijikata-kun." He's of a mind to force the guy bodily out the door, but Hijikata is immobilized by arms around his shoulders like a lariat. "I didn't mean it. I'm sorry if I offended you." The lips pressed against the back of his neck add a measure of sincerity that binds a knot in his chest.

"Am I offended?” he asks, his own voice thinner than he expects.

The answer is indirect: "I got involved with you because I like you."

The knot in Hijikata’s chest turns over. "Your honesty is something else."

"Your other shit is just a bonus."

"Yorozuya. . . ."

"It's pathological. I _have_ to ruin nice things."

/ / / / /

"Before we arrive, if you could—dress down, some."

He glances down at his chest as he steps out with the crowd onto the platform. "What, you don't think I should stroll into Yoshiwara in full officer garb?"

It's a half-hearted jibe; he's already dripping sweat as it is. It had begun to rain on their way to the station so the train was uncharacteristically packed, and there hadn't been enough space on board for him to reduce layers. Tsukuyo might've offered to assist if she'd been facing his back, but he was wedged behind her—a fact she had gratefully accepted. She rationalized that his position was nothing more than a perfect deterrent to the anonymous groping that no doubt would've occurred otherwise.

Not that anonymous groping would've been news on standing-room-only transit. She's been there, she can handle it. But with every lurch of the train car he did not sway one iota, and she allowed herself a bit more sway than usual, knowing his body was steeled to catch hers. So she chose to rationalize, because it made more logical sense than _I simply enjoyed it_.

Now the rain is an oppressive mist and they're both exhausted from the strain of cutting through it. " _Officer_ ," she scoffs. "You look more like Matsudaira than a common patrolman."

"Please tell me you only know him from being a nut job on TV." She shrugs as he pulls the cravat from his throat. "He's a damn customer, isn't he?"

She just shrugs again. _So he really is Shinsengumi._ Tsukuyo decides not to dwell on this.

"You know what? Never mind." He peels away his jacket and, much to her chagrin, the waistcoat as well. "How's that?"

"You just look like a frazzled salaryman now. All you need is a briefcase."

"And some fuzzy strap on my phone."

"Business nail."

"And what the hell is that, pray tell?"

"Never mind. I suppose I am exposed to more of the white collar than you."

"Don't phrase it like that."

"What's wrong with my phrasing?"

He offers her a cigarette when he takes one out for himself. She frowns in polite refusal. "I'm concerned what it'll look like," he says, "with _you_ escorting me."

"I can be inconspicuous."

"Ah, shit," he mutters, "I didn't have my lighter." It's a bit too wet out to offer him a match, so he pockets the cigarette. "But they all know who you are here, right?"

"Mn. I was seen with you yesterday."

"Yeah, and you could barely stand so I just looked like some rando helping a pretty girl home. Now it's kind of suspicious."

"You're worrying too much."

"Are you about to call me neurotic?"

"I never said that."

"Didn't say you did."

She clicks her tongue. "You caught me."

"Couldn't help but notice you _did_ also have to add frazzled, for some reason."

She shrugs. The misting gets lighter and lighter as they enter Yoshiwara; even with the ceiling opened the town is protected from the full brunt of inclement weather, and soon it is negligible. She's following him because he seems to remember the way, and she's content to fall back and watch him—the wrinkles in the back of his shirt from pressing inside the waistcoat, the slim lines of his neck, beads of salted rainwater trickling into his collar. He struggles to roll up his sleeves, the wetted material clinging to his lean arms.

Tsukuyo spots one of her girls, just moments from passing them on the busy street, whom she'd like to avoid because the stranger is right. It would be a little suspicious for the head of the Hyakka to be casually escorting an unrestrained man—one that isn't Gintoki, anyway—through Yoshiwara. She's got a split second to decide whether to hide behind him, grab an arm and guide him in another direction, or to fall back and pretend she isn't walking with him at all.

She manages an awkward combination of all three—positioning him between herself and the Hyakka, but at arm's length. "Swing left," she says quickly.

"What?"

"I need to pick something up."

Fuyumi eyes them warily, but as she passes she offers Tsukuyo a nod. "Kashira," she says in simple greeting before she disappears. Tsukuyo feels the man's narrowed gaze burning through her ears. _He definitely caught that._

"So where are we going?" he asks.

"It’s just for a moment."

It’s not that she's embarrassed by him, but she has reasons to keep him under wraps. It feels slimy enough, having this affair with Gintoki behind the town’s back. Neither of them much care that Terada-san has no doubt pieced it together, but at his place Gintoki and Tsukuyo repress even their smallest affectionate touches until the kids are out on a job. Not because they would raise a stink if they knew; the problems would only arise if Yoshiwara were to find out. Gintoki continually insists it wouldn’t be an issue, but he wasn't raised a woman in red light district culture. She knows the rules. So as awful as she feels about it, she keeps him secret.

And Tsukuyo in no hurry to make yet another man feel like a shameful habit, so she is glad to have come up with a real excuse to steer him down a different route. They stop in a narrow alley between several adult establishments, one of which is a love hotel managed by an accommodating acquaintance. Should be willing to loan her a men’s yukata from the hotel laundry. "Do you have a color preference?"

"What?"

"Just say anything."

"I don't know. Drab."

"That's not really a color."

"Are you arguing with me about my color preferences?"

She rolls her eyes. "Wait here."

"Leave me the matches?"

Tsukuyo has to actively avoid rolling her eyes again, and when she returns with a plastic bag he’s scrolling on his phone. "Drab _is_ a color," he says from within a cloud of cigarette smoke. "Dusty brown. Khaki."

She waves away the cloud. Tsukuyo might love her pipe, but cigarettes are acrid. "So you like khaki."

"Hell no."

"So then it doesn't really matter that it's a color."

Tsukuyo can't decide if she finds his shrug of a response infuriating or adorable. _Kind of reminds you of somebody._ She shoves the bag into his arms, and he gingerly sniffs when he sees cloth inside. “That’s a fair concern,” she says, “but I pulled it from the dryer myself.”

“What is this?"

"I don't own anything that would fit you." That's technically true. She doesn't own it but she does have a set of Gintoki’s “jim-jams” (gods know where he picked up that phrase) left behind the previous week. But his scent lingers in it, so she's not going to share.

"You didn't have to do that."

"You weren't going to wear that sweaty uniform all night."

"Exactly how late am I staying, kashira?"

She is unexpectedly ruffled, this title coming out of _his_ mouth. "You're trying your luck."

"I know. It's invigorating."

 _Damn clown._ She sets him back on the path toward her place, and she must resist once again hooking her hand into the crook of his arm. It's _right there_ , jacket and waistcoat slung over it. He’s carrying the bag in his left hand so she switches to his left side. When they get to her apartment she can no longer resist a touch and ushers him inside with a hand on the small of his back. His shirt is dewy, surprisingly warm.

Tsukuyo offers him first pass at the shower while she stretches out on the floor of the main room with a hand fan. From there she can hear his groans of relief, and for a time the only sound is the hiss and hard splatter of water. “Shouldn’t it get cooler when it rains?” He’s so worn out that he has no sense of how loud his voice is, so it’s much louder than necessary and echoes from the other room. She smiles.

“It’s really not that hot, it’s just muggy.”

“It’s the worst of both worlds.” When he emerges wrapped up in the borrowed yukata he says, “Would you mind, uh. . . .”

“What?”

“I don’t know, is it okay to just demand tea?” As dour and prickly as he seems, he looks almost cute with his arms crossed, hands folded into his sleeves and brows angled down.

“Sure, but I don’t have barley tea.”

“I wasn’t thinking of cold tea anyway.”

“Weren’t you just complaining about the heat?”

“Yes.” He frowns, declining to elaborate. She can guess where he's coming from—something chilled wouldn’t be near as soothing. “What about cushions? You don't exactly have furniture.”

“No cushions either. Sorry.” While he heads to the closet to prepare the futon instead, Tsukuyo rummages through her tea chest and clicks her tongue. "I'm out of green, is black alright?"

"M’not picky."

She measures leaves into a strainer, water from the boiler into a teapot, and hits a timer. She can feel his gaze as she moves, and it's not threatening or oppressive—more curious than anything—but she's suddenly so self-conscious about her hands. The scars on her face are rarely a concern anymore, like a tattoo so old the bearer forgets it's even there. But the light scarring on her hands is something else.

The stranger's flaws are different than Gintoki's—the men are diametric extremes in personality—but they are both pure. Gintoki bows to laws where he can (though really he can't afford not to, with the history that at times peeks through the cracks in his mask), and the stranger goes so far as to uphold them as his life's work. Tsukuyo's scars are an artifact of her own life, one of predation and unlawful justice. She is proud of the outcomes, of protecting the women dear to her. And still, deep within, she feels the guilt of wrongdoing. Her work is fulfilling, but she does not enjoy it.

He shuts off the shrilling timer just as she reaches to do it herself. "Sorry," he says. "Habit. I'm used to picking up the slack for little things."

"Absentminded colleagues?" she asks. She slips the strainer from the pot and pours them each a little cup.

"Friends too. Just lazy. He'd let it go indefinitely just to prove an idiot point." He shakes his head when she offers sugar. _That's one way they differ._ He’s still standing against the wall, eyes closed as he sips, exhausted but content with a warm cup between his palms.

She sits on the futon and breathes onto the surface of her tea until the steam makes her upper lip sweat. She drains her cup in one long, slow sip; it's like being fireside in July, at peace with the heat until you sink back into the midsummer night that now seems a little more comfortable than you remember. She pulls the sheet around her arms with a shiver.

When he yawns, Tsukuyo pats the space on the futon beside her. "I don't think that's a good idea,” he says.

Now she's curious about his orientation; his friend seems to be male but also more than just a drinking buddy. "I've already slept with you twice."

" _Jeezus_ that's a liberal use of that phrase. Though, uh . . . if I'm being honest, it did feel pretty nice.”

"Most men secretly prefer being the little spoon."

"Think so, huh?" he says with a grin.

"It's true. With a sample size of, everyone who has ever visited Yoshiwara."

"Define 'most'."

"Don't be pedantic with me."

"I feel like I've heard that tidbit somewhere," he says as he seats himself cross-legged beside her. "Man. . . .” He settles into a sigh, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. “Fuckin' _so_ tired.”

"Bad day." From his hunched position he nods. "Work could've been easier for me as well."

“I know I shouldn't worry, but. . . .” He sits up, still rubbing his face. “ _Fuck_ it's distracting. Not knowing.”

“What do you think happened?”

He shakes his head, stares through the floor. The distance in his eyes, the uncertainty—it’s clear he doesn't often pry this deeply into his own psyche. It’s a selfish thing but somehow she feels comforted, knowing that he trusts her to this extent already. “I don't wanna think I've been ghosted. Actually that seems kind of impossible, that’s not the kind of person we’re talking about here.” She hums in agreement. “But the alternatives. . . .”

Tsukuyo’s heart skips a beat. Memories, images of blood red on snowy white, induce a sickness that is all too familiar. _The alternatives._

Then there's an arm around her shoulders. “C'mon,” he says gently, with just a little squeeze, “can't have you giving up. _I'm_ not giving up. There's more than one alternative, right? Seems like your friend is an airhead too.” He nudges her. “Right?”

“Mm.”

“So it'll be okay.” His cheek comes to rest atop her head, and his body shifts with a heavy sigh. She can almost feel the thudding of his heart—or is it her own nervous palpitations, unsettling as they are benign?

“Just because I can't see your face, that doesn't mean you can hide the fact you are reluctant to believe your own declarations.”

“Valiant effort, though.” He punctuates his effort with a quick kiss atop her hair. But unlike yesterday, this time he's not going to leave. His arms tighten. “I've been . . . restless.”

She sinks further into his chest. It’s _not_ just her, it’s his heartbeat too. Nerves. Like standing on a cliff’s edge just waiting for the word, waiting to be pushed. A droning sensation of dread.

“Scoot,” he says. “I want to lie down.”

“‘Not a good idea,’ he says.”

“Just move it.”

Instead she lies back with a deep sigh, arms outstretched, and he’s down on his belly beside her with an arm across her chest. Her arms curl up around him, and he palpably relaxes the closer he's pulled in.

It happens gradually. His head cradled in her arms. His face buried in her shoulder. His lips pressed against her neck. His tongue on her skin. She grasps a handful of hair and pulls him back, and just as he's saying _I'm sorry_ she kisses him.

She can't speak for the stranger, but for Tsukuyo the realization had begun to sink in just before they'd overstepped that boundary. Nothing had been clear in her mind, a muddied splash of lonesomeness, desperation, and relief that she isn't alone in her lonesome desperation. Was there even a realization? Or just a feeling in her gut, a sensation of this man as a human wall, that if she could just reach through she could touch something more familiar on the other side?

It isn't until they're lying naked in the dark, a mess of tangled limbs and clasped hands, humid and trembling, that the realization becomes concrete: _Gintoki is with us both._


End file.
